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Authors: Sandra Gulland
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celebration—and why not? People had lost their lives to the raging torrent. The survivors had cause to dance.
IN THE MORNING, our stale, hard bread long gone, I made to crumple its news-sheet wrapper for the fire. Then— Thank you, Father —I laid it out flat. It was yellowed and brittle, a playbill of a theatrical performance, The Triumph of Peace.
At the Marais Theater.
The Marais was the theater my mother and father had performed in, the one Monsieur Martin said had burned down. The date of the production was past, but not that long past. More important, the location was revealed: “rue Vieille du Temple, across from the Capuchin monastery.”
Our rue Vieille du Temple? Not far.
AT THE CORNER of the rue Vieille du Temple and the rue de Thorigny, the cobbles emerged dry and clean from beneath a skin of slimy mud, a realm untainted by the flood. Ahead, on the left, people were camped—the bewildered newly homeless. Tents and haphazard shanties filled a courtyard where children laughed and played. A nun in sandals moved slowly from one tent to another, distributing alms-bread out of a basket. By her rough garb, I knew her to be a Poor Clare—a Capuchin.
I turned, knowing what I would see. The tall, narrow building had a slightly peaked roof. A gaudy sign hung over the door: Le Théâtre du Marais. Tears came to my eyes recalling Father talking of this theater with such reverence. It was smaller than I’d imagined, and not nearly as grand.
The area in front of the theater was slippery with mud, the stench from an open cesspit across the road heavy in the air. The door was bolted shut. A painted sign informed me that the theater was closed until after Lent. A smaller sign below was apparently intended for the troupe: there was to be a general meeting on the twelfth just after Terce, the bells for morning prayer.
I made a note: three days.
CHAPTER 14
O n Thursday, the twelfth of February, I headed back up the rue Vieille du Temple. A chill breeze puffed up now and then, sending scraps flying. The river had held to its banks, but the air still reeked and there were heaps of rubbish everywhere.
My plan was to talk to the director of the troupe, offer myself and Mother as loge attendants, asking only three sous a day for the two of us. (Plus a meal, ideally.) Gaston could work odd jobs for free. That way we could keep an eye on him—and perhaps he’d even learn something.
Of course, three sous a day would never be enough. The key would be getting Mother taken on as a player eventually, and thus entitled to a cut of the take.
Approaching the theater, I held back, watching as people entered for the meeting. Some had the lean look of players, others were laborers, thick in their ways. A few lingered around a vendor selling venison pasties and burnt wine. One tight, consoling circle had formed around a woman relating a tearful account of flood rescue and loss.
An older woman in a man’s wig emerged from the theater. “It’s too chill to keep these doors open,” she scolded, kicking away a wooden prop. “Everyone in.” Her demeanor was affable, at odds with her gruff words and the curious nature of her costume. (Mother might not appear daft in such company.)
As the last of those lingering outside disappeared into the theater, I stepped forward.
“Are you here for the meeting?” the woman in the wig asked, looking up at me sideways.
“Not exactly.” I was tempted to curtsy, as one would to someone in such an ostentatious hair piece, however laughable. No doubt it kept her head warm. I edged my foot in front of the door, to prevent it from being closed in my face. “I’m to talk to someone about employment.” As if it had already been arranged.
“Now? Best hurry then,” she said, and I slipped in behind her. She nodded toward the closet where tickets were sold. There, an old man sat hunched over a plank table, sorting piles of coins by the light of a candle. “Monsieur Pierre?”
He looked up,
IN THE MORNING, our stale, hard bread long gone, I made to crumple its news-sheet wrapper for the fire. Then— Thank you, Father —I laid it out flat. It was yellowed and brittle, a playbill of a theatrical performance, The Triumph of Peace.
At the Marais Theater.
The Marais was the theater my mother and father had performed in, the one Monsieur Martin said had burned down. The date of the production was past, but not that long past. More important, the location was revealed: “rue Vieille du Temple, across from the Capuchin monastery.”
Our rue Vieille du Temple? Not far.
AT THE CORNER of the rue Vieille du Temple and the rue de Thorigny, the cobbles emerged dry and clean from beneath a skin of slimy mud, a realm untainted by the flood. Ahead, on the left, people were camped—the bewildered newly homeless. Tents and haphazard shanties filled a courtyard where children laughed and played. A nun in sandals moved slowly from one tent to another, distributing alms-bread out of a basket. By her rough garb, I knew her to be a Poor Clare—a Capuchin.
I turned, knowing what I would see. The tall, narrow building had a slightly peaked roof. A gaudy sign hung over the door: Le Théâtre du Marais. Tears came to my eyes recalling Father talking of this theater with such reverence. It was smaller than I’d imagined, and not nearly as grand.
The area in front of the theater was slippery with mud, the stench from an open cesspit across the road heavy in the air. The door was bolted shut. A painted sign informed me that the theater was closed until after Lent. A smaller sign below was apparently intended for the troupe: there was to be a general meeting on the twelfth just after Terce, the bells for morning prayer.
I made a note: three days.
CHAPTER 14
O n Thursday, the twelfth of February, I headed back up the rue Vieille du Temple. A chill breeze puffed up now and then, sending scraps flying. The river had held to its banks, but the air still reeked and there were heaps of rubbish everywhere.
My plan was to talk to the director of the troupe, offer myself and Mother as loge attendants, asking only three sous a day for the two of us. (Plus a meal, ideally.) Gaston could work odd jobs for free. That way we could keep an eye on him—and perhaps he’d even learn something.
Of course, three sous a day would never be enough. The key would be getting Mother taken on as a player eventually, and thus entitled to a cut of the take.
Approaching the theater, I held back, watching as people entered for the meeting. Some had the lean look of players, others were laborers, thick in their ways. A few lingered around a vendor selling venison pasties and burnt wine. One tight, consoling circle had formed around a woman relating a tearful account of flood rescue and loss.
An older woman in a man’s wig emerged from the theater. “It’s too chill to keep these doors open,” she scolded, kicking away a wooden prop. “Everyone in.” Her demeanor was affable, at odds with her gruff words and the curious nature of her costume. (Mother might not appear daft in such company.)
As the last of those lingering outside disappeared into the theater, I stepped forward.
“Are you here for the meeting?” the woman in the wig asked, looking up at me sideways.
“Not exactly.” I was tempted to curtsy, as one would to someone in such an ostentatious hair piece, however laughable. No doubt it kept her head warm. I edged my foot in front of the door, to prevent it from being closed in my face. “I’m to talk to someone about employment.” As if it had already been arranged.
“Now? Best hurry then,” she said, and I slipped in behind her. She nodded toward the closet where tickets were sold. There, an old man sat hunched over a plank table, sorting piles of coins by the light of a candle. “Monsieur Pierre?”
He looked up,
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